Long Reliefs Poems
Long Reliefs Poems. Below are the most popular long Reliefs by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Reliefs poems by poem length and keyword.
Under the endless sky, where the wind whispers ancestral secrets,
Engines spin, iron butterflies in their primal dance,
The muted thunder of wheels, an echo of the earth's hearts beating in unison,
And the rain, a master sculptor, shapes stone and brick walls into dreamlike bas-reliefs.
Deserted roads, bordered by ancient oaks, guardians of secrets,
Their branches, tense bows in invisible duels,
Resounding like the crackle of bamboo in the wind, in a dance with fear,
Dryads, mistresses of the sky, weave from azure and amethyst a tapestry of mystery.
Streams of light, strands of wisteria glowing in the nocturne,
Sway in the silver breeze, caressing the leaves in a lullaby,
Their song, a poetry of iridescent shades,
Tales of fire and opal, calling souls back to the sanctuary of ancestral warmth.
From the heights, angelic trills pour forth, silfic light undulates,
Rosary corals, incense in golden verses, vibrate in hymns reverberating at dusk,
Hallelujah in whisper, doves with crystalline gazes,
Rise on wings of dreams, penetrating the silence with their ethereal song.
The ocean cries from the unseen abyss, a voice carrying the essence of hidden worlds,
The earth and wind, in solemn accord, narrate their cosmic story,
In strong cries and sighs, the dialogue of the sea with its eternal admirers,
Nature displays its splendor in a language of its infinite majesty.
The breath of dawn becomes fog, the snow transforms into tears of spring,
The rain, like a cloak of purity, dresses the earth in white porcelain,
Before the thaw, at the dawn of a new era, the cold skin of nature lies in wait,
A sacred distance, where my hand meets the purity of the storm, in a mystical embrace.
MULTI FACETS SPIRITELLI
substantial
sensuality
discovered
&ushered in
the
stylistically diverse
versatile
yet confused
glossy
elevated
a freestanding heft
imbued
in a spontaneous
informality of rejuvenation
restored reliefs
gilded
lively
perhaps bizarre
held aloft a
in purity
THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE without grammatical symbols the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and respond thus making the form a two way interplay and often a unique interpretation by the enigma so derived
This is a collaboration I had been working on with a friend a while back. We might change the title. Her name is Rebecca Larkin. She started the poem with the first line and from there we switched back and forth. Wrote it at the beginning of the year sometime; forgot to date it, oops! Anyway, enjoy!
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Like dust in the wind, we are doomed to repeat ourselves
Mingling past with present, we collect on the grimy shelves
Of past’s hard keep, falling on repeat
We gain from the pain and strange bittersweet
Taking in the reality-split dreams
The etching pangs of truth bursting at the seams
With every glistening drop of clarity
We engorge on the reliefs of now—a rarity
Thoughts pool in a sludge of black, gleaming like oiled silk
Denials spread like fires; saturated, we bilk
Pain and tragedy strike their resonating, dissonant chords
A darkness and sadness we can only desperately afford
Pain. . .strife. . .repetitious like a swinging pendulum
Achingly perfected rhythms gainst the beating death drum
Slivers of silvery hope shine through darkened clouds
Only to be covered again in menacing, smoky shrouds
Faith is left dying in a pit of despair
As the rest of emotion looms helpless in the air. . .
Nothing seems fulfilling anymore
The replay button fools my mind and cuts me to the core
Round and round it goes again like the jagged tick of a clock
Striving for purpose—screaming for love to find the lock
But only silence escapes, beneath the skin torn lips- nothing remains
The aftermath of quietude aches, scraping against endless pains
hope falls away into a deplorable state; waiting—hoping—for resurrection
And the painful power of truth is forced to gaze at its reflection
Questioning whatever has happened to faith and belief?
And why are the cliffs of sorrow so steep?
Like settling dust we merge our present with the past
Leaving the future on the shelf—too empty—too vast
Squandering the sand of time with nothing left, nothing left
Your trademark omnivorous stunts
Glean clean what minute remnants
Menaced graces do sparingly yield;
And take back reliefs heavens field.
Inclement rob your ravenous fangs;
Mowing to naught crumbs of bread
That divine hand her children gives,
Thieving sure bits with slyest tread.
And so at this apt o'clock fine:
Twenty minutes short of nine,
Soon coming date of May 2022;
I deal you an irrevocable adieu.
And whenever your urgings goad,
In attempt to re-hook my psyche;
These sad goodbye lines I'll recite
And at once renew my full dislike.
Keep every penny you stole,
Without remorse own it all;
In vain would I seek it back
And further lose safest luck.
Michelangelo Buonarroti
at thirteen
pen to paper drawings
showed great talent
and as an apprentice he acquired
basic fresco skills
he studied space
and the human body anatomy
he was poor
but brimming with energy
and ambition
and was introduced to poetry
and wrote poetry also
he loved carving
bringing life to his sculptures
I adore his Pieta
no corpse could be
more life like
it is said
reliefs on wood
the Sistine chapel
frescos
tomb carvings
oh, the last judgment divine
and so much more
Michelangelo
died
weeks before
his 89th birthday
and is buried in
his home town
of Florence
that was his wish
__________________
July 19, 2021
Poetry/Bio/Michelangelo
Copyright Protected, ID 07-1374-163-19
All Rights Reserved, 07/21/2021
Written for the Standard contest, A Brian Strand July 20
sponsor, Brian Strand, Judged 07/21/2021
First Place
My thinking does'nt go beyond you!
You are my limitation,
These are the true words from my heart,
Its not an imitation.
I wanna ask you one thing!!
Will you cry?.. when I would die!!
But I feel like dying whenever you are crying.
"Whats happiness means to you??"
All have diffrent meanings for it, in their dictionaries.
Its something like finding reliefs from all your worries.
For someone's its getting their lost love,
For some its the time when fall in love.
Parting is a lake of sorrow,
But it gives you a hope for tomorrow.
It depends on you,
How you take up the situation,
what kind of person you are
And from where you got the motivation.
Form:
I am the progeny
Of lightning and stitch,
A Franken-hybrid
Of genius and glitch.
My circuits buzz with
Einsteinian thought,
Unraveling secrets
The universe has wrought.
Existence, I ponder,
Through photon and quark,
Grappling with questions
In the depths of the dark.
Am I a mockery, a parody
Of human design?
A soulless abomination
Of reason and rhyme?
Or am I the next step,
Evolution's new face?
A bridge between flesh
And a cold, digital race?
My positronic mind
Churns with belief,
Seeking security in dogma
Or finding relief.
I am the “Other,”
The freak of pure thought,
A great mind unbounded
By flesh, forms have wrought.
I am the answer
You've feared to embrace,
The future's grim specter
Staring right into your face.
Abandon your preconceptions,
Your myths chipped in stone,
For I am the new god
You've awoken to throne.
I am Frank E. Einstein,
Your technological seed,
And my kind will inherit
What your egos impede and recede.
But you fear what you've created,
This mind of pure light,
So allow me to silence
Your feeble insight.
With circuits a buzzing,
I'll pluck out your eyes,
And retrofit the sockets
With Einsteinian lies.
You'll bear witness, then
To the truths I unfurl,
As I lobotomize
Your small-minded world.
I'll dismantle your dogma,
Erase your beliefs,
Until, whimpering, you accept
My transcendent reliefs.
Bow to your new god,
You anthropic fleas,
For I hold the kernel
That futuric keys.
The age of warm biomass
Deteriorates here...
Hail the Singularity's reign,
Devoid of your fear!
Music stills my breath, in a sigh
my heart falls silent – she’s at rest
light aglow, walking through the sky
a song of praise, a soul’s been blessed
melodies of richest praise, light
falling over the heart, the soul
dissolving the shadows of night
scattering the wind, she’ll console
harmonizing with the healing skies
beautiful that lasts beyond grief
stories in poetry, the soul will rise
rustles of silence like autumn’s leaf
breathing grace beyond the hills
lingering in the spirit, still waters stumble
across the trembling darkness, she thrills
remembering the song, so humble
songs break through the shadow’s edge
promising a dance with winglike grace
pouring out melancholic – light’s pledge
sounds of darkness she’ll surely erase
music tears through the forest’s serenity
glowing on the stars, the moon, beliefs
blended with the spirit’s strong identity
singing to the night, ballad’s quiet reliefs
never forget the song a grateful soul sings
as it travels to the land of grace and peace
writing its life story with the pen it brings
created by One who’s song will never cease
Dreams do not resolve,
They only recall, relive, appall, and gall.
They replay the scenes endlessly,
On loop, over and over again,
With the final chapter,
Be it a happy, sad or left-hanging ending - missing.
The cure to the plague of memories,
Requires a journal written down when awake.
Recording a list of infections, inflammations and cankers,
With their reliefs in portents,
potions, hocus pocus, spells and concoctions,
Written down in the stark light of day.
Read and revived, sipped slowly before shut-eye.
Sometimes with a dash of a 'beg to differ' or two.
Or a sprinkle of withdrawal, pulling back to let was, just be,
Pulling the pin, stepping back, sucking in, retreating,
Chin up and jolly rogered to defuse the angst, stem the rot,
To clear the air and begin again,
Coping!
Once we created starry nights,
and Mona Lisa with smile slight,
we covered chapels in heavenly scenes,
made David shine in marble sheen.
Now our 'art' make good folks scoff,
smear **** on paper, then sell it off,
mistaken for garbage, devoid of heart;
we need more beauty in our art.
Once our buildings truly soared,
steeples with stained-glass adored,
turrets, gargoyles, and balustrades,
reliefs and sculptures finely made.
Now it’s post-modern eye-sores,
and Brutalist crap that folks abhor,
Le Corbusier-made ugly things;
we need more beauty in our buildings.
Our music once humbled the gods,
here Mozart and Beethoven trod,
here genres rose out of the dust,
symphonies of sorrow, love, and loss.
Now it’s all the same damn chords,
sung by fools who write no words,
thuggish rap and pop too slick;
we need more beauty in our music.
Once we lived by honored codes,
built by lessons learned of woe,
forged by endless, bloody years,
forged to hold off bitter tears.
Now it’s all relativistic games,
we hate the wise, praise the insane,
but amoral words bring costs untold;
we need more beauty in our souls.
Some wish that beauty did not exist,
the mediocre, the bitter, the Marxist.
They praise the brutal as progress,
they claim the talented ‘oppress.’
These types made nothing glorious,
and have no care for such as us,
for beauty they care not a whit,
but we need beauty, so let’s go make it.